Not this weekend. Must be with Julian. Lo siento. S x

And suddenly the paranoia returns. Why would she turn me down? Has Arenaza spoken to them? Has their plan unravelled? This will be the aftermath of San Sebastián: not concerns over Saul’s sex life, but other mistrusts and suspicions. I finish the tortilla – almost breaking a tooth on a diamond-hard chunk of jamón – and ring Julian in an effort to establish what’s going on.

‘So! You’re back. How was it?’

He is at his desk, chipper as ever, no suggestion of concern.

‘Terrific, thanks. Just need the weekend to write up the magnum opus. How are things with you?’

‘As ever, but who am I to complain?’

Indeed.

‘Manchester United still winning?’

‘Oh yes, oh yes.’

The question, as I might have anticipated, instigates a five-minute monologue about United’s chances of ‘stealing the title’ from Arsenal. (‘If we can just put a string of results together, I reckon Wenger will really eat his words.’) Then a call comes through on Julian’s other line and he is forced to cut the conversation short.

‘Doing anything this weekend?’ I ask, trying to establish Sofía’s motive before he rings off.

‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Nothing. Bloody parents coming into town.’

This, at least, reassures me that she was telling the truth.

‘Well, maybe we can have lunch on Wednesday,’ I suggest. ‘Go through my report.’

‘Good idea,’ he says. ‘I’d like that.’ But he hangs up without saying goodbye.

To disguise any pattern, I choose a different internet café, on Calle de Amaniel, and work until six tracing language schools in Bogotá. If Colombia is anything like Spain, companies offering language tuition will go out of business every few weeks, but most of the old stalwarts, including Berlitz, are listed on the web. I take down a series of numbers and realize that most of next week will be taken up making phone calls to Washington and Colombia. I also find a Basque translation service on the web that quotes me just under €800 for converting several Arenaza articles from Gara and Ahotsa into English. They promise that the results will be ready inside five working days, although it angers me that I’ll have to shell out the equivalent of almost five hundred pounds just to read what, in all likelihood, will be illdisguised nationalist propaganda.

Finally, I access a site for marriage licence information at the Superior Court of the District of Columbia and call the number listed using the Amena SIM card. For at least two minutes I’m trapped in a maze of automated voices, until a spirited receptionist eventually puts me through to ‘Leah’ in ‘our executive office’.

‘Who shall I say is calling, sir?’

‘My name is Simon Eastwood.’

‘Just a moment.’

At the next-door computer terminal, a thick-set teenager wearing headphones is busy shooting up a gang of armed drugs smugglers, pounding on his mouse to reload. His forehead sweats as blood decorates the screen. I have to sit through thirty seconds of synthesized Mozart before Leah picks up. Her voice is clipped and machine-efficient.

‘Mr Eastwood. What can I do for you today?’

I move away from the banks of computers and find a quieter spot at the back of the room.

‘Yes, I wonder if you would be kind enough to assist me with a small problem.’ Outside of New York City and Los Angeles, Americans can still be charmed by Limeys who sound like David Niven. ‘I’m trying to discover whether a person of my acquaintance was married in the District of Columbia at some point between 1991 and the present day.’

‘May I ask the nature of your enquiry, sir?’

‘I’m a genealogist.’

Judging by the surprised tone of her voice, Leah doesn’t get too many of those phoning her up. ‘I see,’ she says. ‘And you just want to know if they were married?’

‘Not exactly. I’m fairly sure about that side of things, but there’s a geographical discrepancy in my records between Maryland and DC. I’m also unsure of the date. It’s a question of trying to verify the location and tracking down the actual licence.’

‘For a family tree?’

‘Precisely.’

A tiny pause. She sounds relaxed, so I’m not at all worried.

‘What was the groom’s surname, sir?’

‘His name was Church. A Mr Julian Church.’

‘And the bride?’

Nicole’s surname was always going to be the sticking point. Before making the call I decided to make something up.

‘The bride’s maiden name was Harper, Nicole Harper.’ And there’s a long silence, almost as if Leah has a note beside her telephone instructing her to contact a supervisor immediately if nosey Englishmen start asking questions about Julian Church. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Sure, I’m still here.’ She laughs. ‘I have a Julian Church marrying a Nicole Law in March of 1995.’

‘You do?’

‘Could that be the one?’

For the sake of credibility I persevere with the lie. ‘No. I’m looking for a Nicole Harper. But the coincidence does seem odd. You’re sure there isn’t another listing?’

Leah takes her time. She really wants to help me out on this one.

‘I’m sorry, sir…’

‘Mr Church was British. Perhaps that might help.’

And at this, her voice leaps an octave. ‘But that’s what it says here. Julian Anthony Charles Church, British national, married Nicole Donovan Law, US citizen, March 18th 1995. That’s gotta be him.’

‘Sadly not,’ I reply, stooping to write ‘Donovan Law 1995’ on a scrap of paper. ‘The marriage must have taken place in Maryland. But thank you for your assistance.’

‘Well, you’re welcome, Mr Eastwood. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be more help.’

Saul leaves at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, travelling on the AVE to Córdoba where he plans to visit the Mezquita and pick up a hire car en route for Cádiz. I suggest he spend three nights in Seville and another two in Ronda, in the hope that it might be at least a fortnight before he returns.

‘You can even go to Morocco by ferry,’ I tell him, his cab pulling away on Princesa. ‘Spend a few days in Fez, man. I’ve heard it’s really nice.’

There is a lot to do. I spend the rest of Sunday and most of Monday morning writing up the Endiom report and sending it via email to Julian. Work feels irrelevant in the current situation, but Julian is a perfectionist and will doubtless want several alterations before committing the document to the printers. Finally, at four in the afternoon – 10 a.m. in Colombia – I call the US embassy in Bogotá. I am sitting in the kitchen of my flat, a cup of tea on the table beside a notepad and two ballpoint pens, in case one of them runs out.

‘This is the American embassy of Colombia.’ Another automated system. ‘Press one for English, dos para Español.’

I press ‘1’ and connect to a sleepy-sounding receptionist with a local accent who asks how she can direct my call.

‘I’m trying to track down a friend of mine from the United States. I think she works at the embassy.’

‘What was the name, sir?’

‘Well, it used to be Nicole Law, but I’m fairly sure she got married.’

There is a listless recognition. ‘Oh sure. I know Nicki.’ I feel a skip and thump of excitement. ‘But she no longer works here. I can connect you to somebody who might be able to assist. Would you hold the line please, sir?’

‘Of course.’

Obtaining confidential information by telephone is usually fairly straightforward. There is the great advantage that one cannot be seen by the person at the other end of the line; it is necessary only to lie with the voice. On Friday, speaking to Washington, I attempted to convey the sense of a slightly dotty Brit adrift in unanswered questions. It’s the same on this occasion; I am easygoing and polite, and persistently grateful to the staff for taking the time to help me out.